


Perfection

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-04-21 10:43:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4826108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's all anyone would ever see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perfection

**Author's Note:**

> This is a vent work that I don't feel comfortable posting on tumblr since my friends follow me, thus it's here.

He needed to be perfection, lies, and an heir, a title that meant nothing initially but revealed seductive power synchronized by Olde Magick, impossible and ever-lengthening, as old as time itself, perhaps older. It was larger than himself, burning through skin like flame to paper, bloating it until it felt fit to burst, until he needed the pressure to release and return, to end the clawing away at his insides, scraping but always dull in his stomach, his thighs, his wrists, everywhere, leaden purpose tying him down to mediocrity of the masses and bowing his python-strong neck to an unwanted master, the anchor keeping him from going to sea.  
He had to cut himself.  
It was omnipotent ambition that led to this decision, crawling out from under the iron weight to sever the thread tying his body down so he could become alive forever, rise to a position of godhood above all other mortal men who would have been crushed beneath the burdens he bore. Eliminating this unnecessary and revoltingly cowardly disturbance would ensure his worthiness of a position higher than all men controlled only by emotion and the crippling life-weight.  
He would have cut out his own heart if he knew his body could live without it.  
It was a simple enough task to transfigure a razor that would suffice to harm but not permanently injure or scar for too long, a short and blasé blade with an edge sharp enough to find the soft flesh underneath tough skin. He wasn't certain that the knowledge underneath hadn't permeated him so much that he would open up another galaxy or liquid secrets would flow from his veins, so he was exquisitely careful as he made the first try, slowly, slowly.  
Slowly across.  
Lightly.  
Testing.  
His heartbeat, still there, rushed in his ears unwarrantedly. There was still no liquid stardust or condensed perfection at the end of the stroke, no bottled lies that spilled out of his wrist.  
It was disappointing. It was infuriating. He raised a half-formed fist to the mirror with the intent to smash it, determinedly fearful hands shaking. He lowered it with a measured exhale and burning eyes.  
He wouldn't lose. He would not bend. Not to something as simple as this.  
With rage, the one that propelled his search for the chamber, distilled from a stolen birthright, the rage coiled in his gut in wait for a worthy adversary, the same rage that came from the blood he did and didn't have, he pressed and pulled.  
The pain seared and soared, like retribution and vengeance. With a swift flick crimson droplets sprung up like daisies from his cursed father's grave. He was left with a dully pained line and heavy breaths.  
It wasn't enough.  
He did it once, twice, and three times more. He moved on from his wrist when he realized that his robes slipped, hastily pulling his trousers down to mark his thighs, then the area above his hips, his ribs, creating a hidden Chamber on his own body.  
He stared into the mirror, half naked and with crusted blood on lines of skin, conquered territory, his own body, determination set wild, and slowly began to pull on his clothes to hide the results of his frenzy.  
He would be perfection, and that's all anyone would ever see.


End file.
